


Alterations Made

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Series: Castiel's Hope [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Death, Blood and Injury, Comfort/Angst, Cutting, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flagellation/Purification, Fluff, Mark of Cain, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Sexual Bondage, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sad Dean, Scared Dean, Sexual Violence, Stitches, Strangling, Surgery, Whipping, references to Christian religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:32:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2453129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hunt for the First Blade continues around them, Dean weathering the changing storm.  Castiel helps Elle where he can but ends up delivering more than news.  Conversely, what great fortune for Elle, to have a villian who helpfully explains everything before he tries to kill her.  Happy days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pre-school

**Author's Note:**

> This part incorporates episode S09.E06 Blade Runners.

In the days following, Elizabeth worked on picking herself up. She reasoned that this would probably be the hardest and biggest change to deal with, and that there’s no real need to rush make herself to happy, but she did want to get herself to functional and ‘not miserable’ as soon as possible.

Every now and then Sam or Dean would test the waters of the topic. Elle tried to talk the talk and not shy away from, or smother, the issue. “I’m just thinking…” she’d said to the brothers one breakfast, “all those people will go to my wake and be sad about me going… which is sad. But, if I hadn’t done this I’ll die anyway, likely in some strange, grizzly, FBI-access-only sort of way. That would be way worse. Slower and messier. They don’t need to know about such things. In this death, I was probably too drunk to suffer… The point is: it would’ve happened anyway, but this way I get to control it and I have the unique privilege of appreciating that I was loved.”  
“Am loved,” Sam corrected, “They’ll always love you.”  
Dean had looked at her then, hoping she see him saying Me too.

Another time, when it was just the two of them, Sam had taken the time to explain more recent events to Elizabeth - the Angels and their meddling and warring, how Kevin had been lost and how Dean had made mistakes. He had stopped short of the Mark of Cain, feeling that it wasn’t his news to give. “It’s probably best not to bring up Kevin with Dean, though,” he’d advised. Very soon, Elle began to see how complicated, messy and broken everything was. She was stounded they were still there, and functioning so well. “That, all by itself, with all you two have seen and experienced, I’d have gone to water in a padded cell years ago. How do you do it?” she’d asked. “I just try not to focus on the past,” Sam shrugged simply. “Fuck me,” she’d said, shaking her head, “you’ll have to explain that to me too.”

Castiel had visited and she’d caught him up on events. The whole conversation was like confessing to her pastor. He nodded solemnly, listened with intent and stared into the middle distance through her descriptions. He’d shared his condolences over her decision to kill herself off to her family, awkwardly but earnestly. She’d hoped he would share something too, but he wasn’t forthcoming.  
“How is Dean with you?” he’d asked.  
“He’s fine,” she’d shrugged.  
“He’s not aggressive or agitated?”  
“No, not in an inappropriate way, so to speak…” Elle wondered what he was getting at. “He’s not surly like I thought he would be. Maybe it’s just a honeymoon period.”  
“He is, clearly, much happier with you,” Castiel thought aloud, “It’s nice to see people happy.”  
“Why do you ask?”  
“The scar on his arm,” Cass began, wanting to play down his concerns, “Dean took it on for the greater good but I’m not sure how it will change him. I’m hoping his love for you will be a kind of balm.”  
“Okay, sure,” Elle smiled, “I can be balmy.”  
“Good. It a serious affliction Elle,” he continued, “No human has taken it on before.”  
“What usually takes it on?”  
“A demon. There’s only ever been one who’s had it, the first demon. Dean needs it to wield the only weapon we have against Abbadon.”  
“You think love is going to protect him from turning himself into a hand of a devil?” Elle asked. Castiel looked at her, never having heard the situation summarised so grimly. “Just as long as he gets rid of it as soon as Abbadon’s dead. Hopefully he won’t have to take the ships to the Undying Lands.”  
Castiel peered at the floor because he couldn’t recall of a place named the Undying Lands.  
“Sorry Cass, pop culture strikes again,” Elle apologised and added, as casually as possible, “Any news on your research?”  
Castiel took a moment to answer. “I’m afraid not. Trails have run a little thin… although I do have one source I’d like to retry,” he consoled, “so don’t lose hope yet.”


	2. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...of sorts.

Yesterday, a month after meeting Dean, Elle had gotten her first assignment. All theory, of course. She’s to pick up from where Sam left off, researching the Mark of Cain and the First Blade while Sam and Dean take a few days to get their hands on the blade itself. Nothing she’d read made her feel better about Dean’s situation. _These guys just exist between living and dying,_ Elle thought, _how have they not gone ghost crazy?_ Since the encounter with her family, relations with Dean had shifted. He’d been looking after her a lot and their time together had been gentle, affectionate, sometimes playful but the more Elle read the more shitty she felt about that. This was the catalyst that made her really look forward, and not at her family’s loss. Now, she wanted to be there for him.

Yesterday, she’d set an alarm for 1pm to remind herself to eat and it was quite effective. Today, she turns off the alarm thinking I’ll just finish this page… Forty minutes later her stomach grumbles and she stands to see what she feels like from the fridge. A wind shifts her papers and she sees Castiel standing in the war room, puffing, clothes stained and ruffled, face scratched. He sees her but is distracted by a second gust and looks across the room to the appearance of another man. Cass looks at Elle, blue eyes wide and pleading, and she turns away and runs. She doesn’t hear Cass’s yelling, or the preaching of the crazed visitor. She just tries to find the furthest, quietest, smallest place in the bunker. But she doesn’t know the warren of rooms yet. Frantically searching, bare feet padding on painted concrete, Elle’s as silent as her lungs can manage. But soon she realises she’s not sure if she’s been in this place before, her sense of direction disoriented and her brain not sure of anything.

Deciding to cut her losses and take the risk, she heads for the garage, picking up speed in strides. At the last corner, however, she meets him, puffing and crouched in readiness, and even though he looks familiar Elle doesn’t hesitate, pushing herself off the far wall and reversing her path. She means to run out the front door, right past Castiel’s body if she has to, but instantly the man is there again, a wall in her way, and this time he has his arms around her.

Elle twists and drops, hoping to slip from his grip, but from behind he ducks a hand under her armpit and grabs her throat. Pushing her roughly against the wall, she finds herself being choked again. This time she kicks at her attacker. All her effort hurts her feet and it seems to make no difference to him at all. This determined man towers over her, pinning her down with ease while fishing something from his pocket. Elle imagines a dagger, or an amulet, or some sort of coin he’ll press to her forehead with an incantation. But it’s an old hanky, rank with acrid fumes. He wraps it over her mouth and nose, so big is his hand, and releases her throat so she can breathe it in. He holds her head like a vice, his elbows over her shoulders, all his weight against her as he stares into fighting eyes. Elle’s body is free to pathetically resist his effort, while he waits through her few seconds of struggle. Her last thought is of a slightly younger man and his son, sitting in a car in her local beach’s carpark in the bright stinging sun.


	3. Lesson 1: You know nothing

Dean and Sam return home, rattled from their work at Magnus’. Dean slept a lot of the trip back, exhausted by his first killing with the blade. Sam had frowned at every mile of road. Dean’s behaviour, the possessive nature of it, was very concerning and didn’t bode well for their plans with the blade or for Dean’s safety.  
As they come in from the garage, Dean finds himself searching for Elle, longing to burying his face in her neck and breath in what had become the fragrance of home. He wants her softness and comfort, the way she could joke him away from the world and look at him like he was all she needed. Not in her bedroom, nor the kitchen, nor the library. But then in the war room, with a preview of Castiel’s condition – the corner of a trench coat lying on the ground - Dean calls out Sam’s name without thinking. He comes racing as Dean gets Cass rolled onto his back; he’s alive but out for the count. And then Dean runs, frantically, checking every space he can think of as he passes them: the med room, the freezer, each room, hers and the ensuite, and then through the corridors. Although he checks each one, he gets slower and slower, and then gives up calling her name. On the last empty chance, he slams the door as hard as he can, letting his face water at the thought of losing someone he doesn’t want to do without, yet another friend gone. Already.

Dean sprints back to Cass and Sam, yelling as soon as he can see Cass is awake.  
“Cass! Where is she? Please, Cass, give us somethin’,” he pleads, landing beside where he sits.  
They both help him into a seat.  
“Uh, Dean,” he pants, still shaky from the knock, “I think she’s been taken. By an angel. It’s someone who’s known her nearly all her life, so I’m hopeful he won’t do anything rash.”  
“We can do a locating spell right?” Sam asks.  
“Maybe,” Cass thinks, pressing his palm to his temple, “I suspect he’ll have warded wherever he’s holding her.”  
“Who is he Cass? What would he hold her for?” Dean demands, no news being fast enough.  
“His name is Dominic, a lower order angel devoted to Michael and to Barachiel. His job was to watch Elizabeth until the apocalypse and keep her safe until it passed. His order was to protect her, a habit I hope persists. But he may not agree with us over what constitutes protection.”  
“What does he want with her, Cass?” Dean pushes.  
“I’m not sure. He would only say that she had something that belonged to him, but he was the one who spoke of retribution and debt. He fought me, then followed me here, via two other locations. I’ve never had someone keep up with my transporting like that. And then he didn’t kill me. I’m honestly not sure what his plans are,” Castiel reported, dismayed at having so little useful information to give.  
“Oh God Cass!” Dean shouts, slamming his fist onto the glowing desk, “Well, what? Are we going to chase him back to Australia?”  
“There’s no need for him to go there,” Sam reasons, “It’s probably better he leaves any mess here.”  
Dean can’t think straight, he can’t even see what’s in front of him. He opens and closes his hands wishing she would be between them, but she’s not and he looks at Sam, face desperate, heart full of boundless dread.  
“Okay,” Sam says, before Dean can come undone, “Let’s at least try a locating spell, and see what we’ve got.”

* * *

Elizabeth feels the headache first. A screaming pain in her head, in the middle of her skull. It makes her mouth water. She quietly slurps on the spit, her neck pulling her head up so she can swallow. She squints, the even light around her being too bright for her senses. She can see the back of the man who took her, busying himself meters away with a bench of clanging things in this acre-big empty warehouse. Beyond the high windows it’s just blue skies, birds and breezes. Her arms ache, as they are stretched out from her, her shoulders against her ears as she hangs. From her ribs to her elbows the skin is stingingly taut, sinew stretching along the length to her middle fingers. Strips of muscle seem to be fraying down the length of her back, her waist aching from the weight of her pelvis and legs. She looks down to see her feet resting limply, rope around each, and tied to an L-shaped rail on the ground. It seems to be part of a large bed frame, the legs bolted to the ground in front of her. Elle looks at her kidnapper again and is surprised at how easily his name comes to her.

She organises her feet so she can take her weight off her arms, but is careful to breathe through her nose in the process, and makes no noise. It feels like her vertebrae are meeting each other for the first time today. As her shoulders relax, and she stands tall, she wraps her hands around the ropes holding her wrists and pulls a little, re-engaging her muscles. The creaking frame gives away her movements. He turns around.

“Elizabeth!” he says, friendly and welcoming. He turns to place something back on the bench, and Elle wonders whether she should talk at all...  
“Mr Matthews,” she replies.  
“You’ve grown up so nicely, Liz,” he gushes as he walks over. In front of her, he smiles and talks with his hands like he always did, like they’re having a regular conversation in the street. “How are you?...” His eyebrows go up.  
“...I’m well,” she says evenly, “I was well.”  
“Ha, yes. And your family? How are they?”  
“They’re fine, I think.”  
“Huh, they’re going to be surprised. But that’s what happens I suppose,” he puts his hands on his hips, nodding with his smile. “Don’t you reckon? Poor Graham.”  
Elle says nothing, trying to give her most neutral face.  
“I was talking with Luke yesterday, and since Castiel visited me last week I was thinking of you and I asked him if he remembered you and he said “Oh yeah, she was such a bitch to me!” Oh my word Liz, I’ve never heard him talk like that,” he wagged his finger at her, “You must’ve really hurt his feelings.”

Elle wasn’t sure what he was getting at. She and Luke had never been more than silly friends, as far as she knew. Was he making it up?  
“You know he loved you,” he said, “I mean, I encouraged it because he was such a _nice boy_ , and handsome yeah? I was sure you’d fall for him, but then you didn’t! How did women get so bloody picky?! Ha!” He was starting to chew his words and talk with his jaw set. Then put his hands up in surrender, taking a deep breath.  
“But you know what? That’s water under the bridge. Old news. You didn’t, and he preeeetty much moved on, but gee it was a snag in the plans. Luckily,” he said, turning away to collect his phone, waving it for demonstration, “tracking someone is easier than I ever imagined! But tailing Castiel was what really got me to you. Obviously.”

He walks around behind her and she hears something move around on castors. He comes back, standing a little to her left. “Okaaay! So!” he claps his hands, “I’ve got a job to do today, and it’s a bit messy, but we’ll get through it. I think I should explain though. I think it’s important to communicate with people when you work with them, and you’ll probably do a better job if you understand why you’re doing it. Okay,” he walks away, wheeling over an old vinyl office chair and sits on its edge. Elle is starting to lose track of the absurdity.  
“So, you’re not faithful to God, and you’re not a believer-” Mr Matthews begins.  
“I am. I’m a believer,” Elle interrupts, hoping it helps.  
“Really?”  
“Yes.”  
“Well, I suppose, if you know Castiel, that’s likely,” he says seriously. “Have you always believed?”  
Elle hesitates, reluctant to spin a web right now… “No.”  
“Never been a churchgoer?”  
“No, not really,” she admits.  
“Well, you’re honest. If we were doing a confession – which we won’t coz I don’t think you’d know where to start – I reckon it’d be short!” He smiles at his own joke.

“That said, I think this whole thing will be over real quick.”  
“What whole thing?” Elle asks, deciding to engage a little.  
“You’ve got something of mine, Liz. Well, it’s not mine especially, but it’s certainly not yours. I can get it back well enough but with you as a vessel, the whole process is tainted. We cannot move onto an alternative solution as things are and we certainly can’t present you, you know, as you are.”

 _Shit. Shitshit. Shit._ Elle’s thoughts weren’t orgnanised, but her instincts were running. She could feel her heart rate had been increasing since the conversation started, she wasn’t’ sure how to reign it in with so little to reassure herself. Mr Matthews was beginning to see her paleness.

“Now, Liz,” he assured her, “I think you’ll get through this just fine. I mean, you’ve always been strong I assume, since you shun your family so happily, and you know what they say: Better people than me have been through worse things than this.” He smiles paternally.  
Elle feels herself begin to breathe more heavily, panic almost rising. She’s barely keeping a lid on her imagination. “So I’m just going to do a short purifying ritual,” he says, standing up, “And, you know, you’ve given yourself to Christian causes, guiding wayward children, so I’ll be going fairly easy, and then we’ll get onto the extraction.”

* * *

All the people in the world who could care for Elizabeth now gathered around a table of magic, willing their efforts to be fruitful. The locating spell’s result was vague, providing an area, but not an exact location. It was over an hour’s drive away. As the brothers rushed to the car, relying on whatever was in the trunk plus the First Blade, Castiel went ahead hoping to find her first. Dean ran hot at the chance to use the blade on Dominic. It felt righteous and justified, and it felt like he finally had a punishment proportionate to the fury he felt when those he loved were harmed. He flexed and gripped his right hand unconsciously, his forearm aching with lactic acid gone pious.

On the edge of a town, with a smelter behind and some sort of industrial complex ahead, Castiel could see the mountain in front of him. There were dozens of buildings, some with windows at the top, some multi-storeyed. It wasn’t exactly a needle in a haystack, more like to a needle in a bale. Achievable, but still too slow. He began to run with his ears open.

* * *

She felt him tug on her t-shirt, then snipping up the middle and along the sleeves. “Mr Matthews?!” Elle asks urgently, as her top falls on her feet. “Did you know my parents?”  
“No, not really,” he says from behind her, as he snips her bra strap. She hears him put the scissors down before he reappears in her view. “I met them briefly before they died, and they seemed like very good people, although a bit foolish. You know, wilful.”  
“Why did you meet them?” Elle asked, as lightly as possible, thankful the cups are still covering her breasts. _Why the fuck would you be near them before they died, arsehole?_  
“Oh Elle, things just didn’t work out for them,” he sat back down to give her the sad news. “Your parents agreed to an immaculate conception of you. Barachiel gave his grace for it to happen – an ultimate sacrifice for an angel, an archangel no less – and they were supposed to give you up so you could be kept safe and pure until the apocalypse. But they changed their minds, and even used deception by being at sea when Lynne was due with you! It’s very hard to trace someone on water, you see, and that act of betrayal got everyone’s back up.” He sighed at the unfortunate choice of actions her parents had taken, shaking his head. “The thing was, they sailed themselves within cooee of the Navy, and after the fire there were that many people involved we just decided plan B was the simpler alternative. Which was for me to watch you while you grew up with Jenny and Graham.” He smiled, story complete. “Does that make sense love?”  
“I suppose,” she said numbly. She assumed he was involved with their deaths, but didn’t need to hear him talk about it like it was a natural consequence of loving your child.

“So, who is my father?”  
“Essentially, Barachiel,” he said, standing again, “but it’s all a bit all over the shop at the moment.”  
“He made the birthday’s line up, then?” she asks, just talking about anything at this stage.  
“What birthdays?” Mr Matthews asks.  
“Oh,” Elle looks down, “I think I’m mixing something up.” He shifts a bit, almost making to stand. “Why would my parents choose to have the next Jesus?” she pries, not wanting to him to go begin anything.  
“Not the next Jesus; the next Mary,” he says patiently. “You were to have _lots_ of Jesuses.”  
“Right,” she says, looking at him.  
“Yes,” and his face said _aren’t you a funny little thing?_ “Honestly, though Liz, you’ve been such a whore you could’ve had a whole clutch of apostles by now. But! That can’t happen untillllll,” he says trotting behind her, “we make you pure again.” He picks something up that Elle can’t see and she can’t think of what to say. “Okay, you ready?” he chirps.

He begins to talk in Latin and she tries to interrupt. She starts but Elle feels leather cords sting against her almost immediately - “Mr Ma-AAAHha!!” They were heavy with something. She leans away from it as much as she can, bowing against the frame. On the second, she wails and strains in useless resistance. On the third, she sobs, wetness falling down her cheeks and her back. On the fourth, she howls as it felt like blades dragging on the stuff beneath her skin. _People live through this. I can live through this._  She doesn't hear his mutterings, nor his effort, nor the red rain behind her.  On the fifth and sixth she screams through clenched teeth and grips the ropes. _But not you fucker._ Through the seventh, eighth and ninth she roars with fury. And then she stops counting.


	4. Lesson 2: Consent

“Good girl,” says Mr Matthews, “Good girl... Well done, Liz.”  
She pants and tries in vain to adjust herself, instinctively looking for relief that she can’t get. She wants to present herself as indifferent, but can’t look at him without hatred.

Mr Matthews stands in front of her with her blood flecked on his trousers. “How was that?” he asks, wiping his hands on a towel. “Refreshing yes? It probably feels worse than it looks,” he smiles encouragingly.

He walks over to the trolley and begins to organise a few things. Liz swallows and tests her strength again. It hadn’t even crossed her mind before to look at her bindings, so alien and unnerving was the situation. But her anger had been clarifying. She encourages the emotion to overwhelm the pain.

Looking at her wrists she can see her bindings aren’t slipknots, but fixed knots. She tries holding her arm in place to get as much slackness as possible from the rope and work her fingers into the knot at the bottom of her wrist, but she doesn’t get enough time to really try it. Mr Matthews turns around with a rope and a large syringe in his hands.  
“So, this will sting, but I’ll be as quick as I can,” he explains as he approaches.  
“Could you,” Elle says, her mouth fat with adrenaline, “couldn’t you just keep me as I am? Now that I’m purified?”  
“I’d love to Elle,” he sighs, putting the needle on the chair and gathering the rope, “but you’re just too old. I mean, thirty-six isn’t too old for you, but it’s just too many years lost. We’ll start again with someone younger.”  
“But... ah... won’t you have to start again with the Winchesters too? Don’t you need their lineage?”  
“Oh goodness, you know a lot already, don’t you?” he marvels. “Yes, but that’s a bridge we can cross once you’re gone. Technology and all that.”

Mr Matthews loosely ties and end of the rope around Elle’s neck. When he throws the other end over the top of the frame and pulls, the knot sits by her ear, the loop lifting her chin and pulling her tall. He fixes the noose, collects the syringe from the chair and Elle begins to breathe fast and deep, almost hyperventilating to brace herself. She tries to remember how the threat of torture is apparently more effective than the torture itself: _People can withstand more than they think_.

Mr Matthews carefully pushes the needle into her neck, aiming for that central spot near the base of her head. Elle whimpers through the pain, but when he pulls on the plunger she cries out through her teeth. On the first sign of blood, he withdraws the needle and looks at it.  
“It’s not there,” he mutters. “How can that be?! I can feel it!”  
He puts the syringe back down and looks over her body. She shudders when he places his hands on her neck, and then over her heart, but there’s nothing. He stands back, looking her over, frowning and troubled. He lays his hand over her solar plexus, then slides it to her lower abdomen.  
“Of course!” he whispers. “Silly me!”

Elle realises that if she stands on her tiptoes she can get some release from the rope on her neck. She can see him better now as he walks back to the trolley and picks up a scalpel. She knows what he means to do.

“Mr Matthews, are you sure you should do this?” she asks through chattering teeth, “What if you damage something?”  
“Close enough is good enough in this case, Liz.” He kneels before her and now she can’t tilt her head enough to see him. She feels his left hand on her hip, holding her steady. “But you should probably keep as still as possible.”  
“Please don’t,” she pleads.  
“It’s okay,” he soothes.  
“Don’t!” she says, almost warning. But he doesn’t stop and she feels the unique pain of being cut. “DON’T!” she shouts, but he keeps going, dragging neat lines with the blade tip, working through the thicknesses. Elle whimpers, drops into the noose and clenches her jaw again, tears beginning to stream. She starts frantically whacking her right arm against the rope, yanking and throwing it about. “Hold still sweetie.” Her exhaling breaths begin to be groans as she works through the changing pain. She tucks in her thumb and pulls, jerks, yanks and puuuuulls.

And she’s free!  
“Thaat’s better,” he sings, poking his finger into her warm body. She can’t see him but she grabs at his head, the only thing in reach, and screams in anguish, wishing that her mere contact could repel him, that the white heat she sees would wash him away.

He lets go of her hip, and tinkling sound hits the concrete.  
Dominic Matthews falls backwards and into the bottom of Elle’s vision. She pants, blinking away the tears, and sees black, smoking cavities where his eyes should be. In horror, she heaves in a shuddering breath and screams the first prayer of her life.  
“ _Castiel!_ ” she shrieks, her voice breaking, “ _Please hear me!_ ”


	5. Lesson 3: You can always ask

Castiel hears Elle’s prayer, but not her voice. He had been moving toward something, a zone with the flavour of Enochian. The door that he’d now brought himself to, felt almost invisible could he not actually see it with his own eyes. He looked up at the windows and, as he recognised the markings, he heard Elizabeth's miserable plea from inside “Castiel… please find me.”  
He reasons that the sigils must be disguising but not defending, as Dominic was able to enter.

Castiel bursts through the door, Elizabeth strung up to his left. Her hand is pressed against her belly, low and to the right, blood oozing between her fingers.  
“Cass,” she says shakily, “what have I done?”  
He steps towards her, wary but confused, and then sees the body at her feet, skull still smouldering. Castiel runs around the frame, meaning to collect her from behind, but upon seeing the wounds of flagellation he sighs her name and moves to her front, pushing Dominic aside with his foot.  
“Cass,” she asks as he releases her feet, “did I do that?”  
Castiel puts a finger to the site of failed extraction and heals it, taking her headache with it. She grunts at the relief. “I suspect so,” he confirms gravely.  
“Did you help me do that?” she wonders, staring at the corpse.  
“No, Elle,” he says going to tend the bleeding by her hip, but she interrupts him. “Please get me out of here,” she whispers. So he undoes the rope at her wrist. She lets it fall by her side, and she drops her bra, completely indifferent to her exposure. Cass can see she’s now leaning on the noose too much. She stares at the body on the ground as he cuts the rope above her head, gathering her up against himself before she falls too far. At a loss of how to hold her when her back is near shredded, Cass collects her under the backside, one hand holding onto the other’s fist, and carries her outside into the sun.

Barely forty minutes have passed since Castiel left the bunker. He kneels in the dust with her straddling his lap, her forehead against his neck as she keeps pressure on her abdomen. He opens his phone to call Dean.  
It only rings once- “Cass! Where are you?”  
“She’s alive,” he says, “I’ve got her here.”  
“Is she okay?” he asks.  
“No,” Castiel says, and upon hearing that familiar engine in the distance, adds “Just keep driving to the back of the industrial complex-”

Elle reaches up with her spare hand, letting Cass’s keep her steady with his hold on her seat, and takes the phone. She turns her head away from Cass as she rests on his shoulder.  
“I killed him Dean,” she says, feeling tired and strange.  
“Okay,” Dean said, turning pale at the idea, “Baby, don’t talk, just rest, we’ll be there soon.”  
“I’ve never wanted to kill anyone before,” she sighed sadly. Cass lays his hand on her neck, his cheek to her head, and closes his eyes at the terrible transformation she’s undergone. She goes on, “I burned his eyes out with my heart.”  
Dean rocks forward. He stares at nothing. Sam glances at him from the driver’s seat, unable to interpret him.

The car turns the last corner and they see the two of them on the ground in the distance. “Elle, we’re here,” Dean says, but doesn’t hang up.  
“I miss you,” she says. She sounds sleepy, and Dean starts to panic. He mutters “Don’t slow down Sam.”  
Dean’s door is open before the skidding car stops, on his knees by Castiel in half a second. His eyes well at the sight of her back glistening red, and when Castiel helps her sit up Dean sees her hand above her jeans. He chokes out a sound as he reaches for it.  
Sam hangs back, standing behind Elle.

“Help her sit Dean,” Cass asks, “I don’t know how much of me this healing will take.”  
Dean scoops himself alongside her, gripping her waistband to hold her up while she can’t lean her chest against him. Cass shuffles backward, both of them holders her upper arms for support, removes her hand from the incision and works his healing over the area, noticing how deeply Dominic had gotten. Elle gasped at the relief. Dean slides against her quickly, offering to take her weight. Her head rests on his shoulder, facing Castiel.  
“Thank you, Cass. It’s okay,” she says, "I’m faint, but I’m okay.”  
“Fix her back,” Dean says.  
Elle sees something like doubt in Cass’s face. “Don’t worry about it Cass, people survive worse. It’ll heal.” He looks at her, speechless, confused at her stoicism.  
“Screw that!” Dean barks, “Cass! C’mon, let’s go!”  
“Leave it Cass,” she repeats, arguing with Dean over their friend.  
“Elle!” Dean cries, “Please! Please don’t make me look at that! I can’t-”  
Elle turns her face and collects his cheek. She kisses him so lightly, yet it still floods him with cool calm. “It’s not important enough, Dean,” she says, watching his green eyes shimmer over her, “I was never perfect. Everyone has marks.”  
He grips the back of her head, kissing her through his grief. She wraps her arms around him, feeling stronger in his embrace. Castiel looks at Sam, nodding for him to follow. They go into the warehouse and check the scene.

Sam stares at the dark and wet cat o’ nine tails on a trolley, at the rope hanging from the bedframe, and recognises her white shirt on the ground. Castiel inspects the syringe, noting the blood and the lack of grace.  
“What do you think he was after?” Sam asks grimly. He stands over Dominic’s body, disappointed to have missed punishing this man.  
Cass looks at the corpse. “Something he didn’t get,” he says. He’s not sure what Elizabeth is, and he wants more answers before he shares what he knows.

Sam and Cass head back out, and Sam holds up Elle’s cut t-shirt for her, slipping it up to her shoulders. She’s stiff but coping.  
In the car home, Elle sits sideways against the backseat, her legs over Dean’s lap, Sam driving all four of them in silence.

As they get back onto the main road, Castiel decides now is as good a time as any to make things clear.  
“Elle,” he says tentatively, “did Dominic say anything helpful for you?”  
“Now’s not really the time, Cass!” Dean snaps.  
“Dean, I can talk. Recent memory is better,” she says, hand on his chest. “He said Barachiel sacrificed himself. He meant to take his grace and start again.”  
“But he didn’t get it,” Cass added.  
“No, but he tried,” she said, shifting her weight, “it wasn’t where he thought it'd be.”  
Sam remembers what it was like when Castiel extracted remnant grace from him, his compassion showing in the rear-view mirror.

Dean just listened. His love, fear and anger were strained, making his reason too scrambled to break through.  
Elle wondered aloud, “I don’t really see how I could use the grace though, if that’s where it all is. It’s me, but kind of not me. Maybe being that angry and scared would give me special access.”  
“Wait,” Sam realises, “you killed Dominic? Like that?!”  
“Yeah…” Elle confirms, looking at him with sorry eyes. “I suppose though, if Barachiel’s gone, it’s not anyone else’s.”


	6. Healing

Dean had been the one to wash Elizabeth’s wounds as she straddled the articulated chair in the med room. She had watched his hands move from the basin to her back, slowly and tenderly, taking the red and washing it into the water. It had stung with memories.  
“Some of this should have stitches.” It was the first thing he’d said to her there.  
“Okay,” she said. “Could I have some aspirin first?” she requested with a small smile.

When he’d finished the stitching, wiped what he could dry, plastered where necessary, he’d helped her sit. From shoulder to waist, and then some, it ached and felt thick, tight and tender. Elle would’ve liked something to lean on but really wanted to be able to hold herself up, to sit and walk independently. So she had put her hand to Dean’s chest to keep him from supporting her and she closed her eyes to gauge her strength.

Dean ran his hand over the site Castiel had healed, a gaping gash still fresh in his mind. “I’m kinda pissed I didn’t get to kill that guy,” he winced, “but seeing you burn him like an angel, that woulda been a close second.”  
Elle smiled a little, still a little cold at the memory. “I wonder if he was surprised,” she wondered aloud.  
“I hope so,” he grinned.

Elle had waited a bit before sharing her next thought. “I didn’t do it to protect the grace,” she said gently. “When I realised what he was taking, what of me, I remember thinking ‘That’s okay, they can go’. You know, that would’ve been a decision made for me. But…”  
Dean dropped his hand, and shifted back a little, unsure of what he thought about her indifference to being effectively castrated. “It was the theft, his arrogance,” she continued. “He was stealing from me. I told him to stop, and he didn’t. That and it fucking hurt.”  
‘You’d let him take your ability to have kids,” he’d asked, amazed, almost disgusted.  
“I didn’t _want_ to let him. I wasn’t happy for it,” she defended, too tired to be irate. “But I’m not going to have kids.” Dean was surprised as his own shock, and quickly realised that he was taking it personally. “I think I love my children enough to keep them from this life, Dean.”

* * *

Carrying her back to his room, as Castiel had carried her, he’d carefully lain himself down backwards, with her over him. Elle couldn’t keep her eyes open, and he’d kissed them gently, kissed her head, slid himself out from under her and lay by her on the bed.

Elle had asked him questions on her exhalations.  
“How did the job go?”  
“It went fine,” he lied.  
“Get the blade?”  
“Yeah, and then no,” he said, tucking her hair behind her ear.  
“D’you use it?”  
“Yeah,” he said, holding her hand.  
“Are you okay?” She looked at him.

Dean found he couldn’t quite lie anymore. He couldn’t say how it had affected him – the ferocity of the killing, the satisfaction being so much greater than ever before, the instant addiction he’d felt, the tunnel vision and blindness – if he tried he could taste it, but it was a memory when he lay by her side.  
“I’m okay when I’m with you,” he soothed.  
“It scares me,” she admitted. “I’m scared for you… But I won’t leave you.”  
He ran his hand over her hair and kissed her forehead, kissed her hand, and held them both while he waited for her to sleep.

“Also,” she breathed, “The birthday-location thing is coincidence.”  
“What?”   
“Our birthday thing,” Elle mumbled, “it doesn’t mean anything… It’s just heaven love.” And she had finally slipped into a deep and healing sleep that lasted for a day.  
Dean had stared at her, trying to figure things out, until he’d fallen asleep too.


	7. Remedial Therapy

Elizabeth, now very grateful for her meal stockpile, took a few days to get up and able around the place. Dean was more agitated than before Dominic’s visit, but she made sure to be in contact with him whenever possible – brushing by, grazing him, and leaning on him even if she didn’t need to – because he said it helped him relax.

After a short week, when her back had healed a little, Elle had begun spooning into Dean, encouraging him to wrap his arm around her. These were the times she heard his breathing properly slow and deepen. She wondered how often he didn’t sleep.

This night, in the early hours of the morning, Elle was fairly sure he’d slept for a longer patch, so she works off her underwear and t-shirt and nuzzles herself into him. After a bit, she straightens a little so her hair is against his face, then her ear. She wiggles into him again. No reaction. She waits. _Ugh, I’m going to have to go back to sleep. How’s that going to happen?… cold fried egg, with a hair in it… green toenails… abscesses..._ He nudges her ear a little and slides his hand to her belly. She waits, hope refreshed, in case he’s being polite.

“You’re still pretty injured,” he murmurs into her neck.  
“My skin is,” she whispers, “it’s just my back. The rest of me is fine.”  
He kisses behind her ear, and whispers back, “I don’t want to hurt you, or tear the parts we couldn’t stitch. We can wait.”  
The tickle of his breath at her hairline triggers pleasures she’s missed. She becomes determined. “You’ve waited ages,” she moans quietly, threading her legs through his, “and pleasure can be healing.” She takes his hand to her breast, showing him what she wants. He breaths in deeply, shifting his length against her. “I miss you,” she says, yearning, “give us some pleasure… please.”

She feels him grow so fast, his hands running over her quickly, breath awakening as he finds her completely naked. She rocks her pelvis against him, practically presenting herself. Dean’s suddenly awake. He breaks away, digs through the bedside table, removes boxers and shirt, gets himself ready and resettles himself behind her, awaiting guidance.

Elle works herself backwards, tilting her hips towards his stomach. Reaching down with her hand, she guides him enough to collect the head of him and smooths herself over him entirely, taking him slowly and deeply. Elle hums at the fullness and Dean sucks his breath. ‘Oh, god, Elle,” he said, sliding one arm under her head and grasping her hip, “I’ve missed you too. So much.”

Elle works against him gently, seeing what the skin at her waist can handle, which is more than she’d expected. She tries not to scratch him with the mess of healing on her back. She pulls onto his hip with her hand, leading him through what she wants. He kisses her neck, her shoulder, and she arches her back a little so he can nibble her ear and kiss her cheek. She takes his hand to show him, “Here”, she says, gripping her own hip through his fingers, then at the bottom of her hard ribs, “and here. They’re good.” “Okay”, he whispers, “what about here?” He reaches around her, his mouth to her shoulder, and slips his fingers between her legs. “Yes,” she chokes, “very good.”

For a while they rock together gently, enjoying the angles and the intimacy, Elle whimpering against his caresses. Dean finds such relief in the moment, all his troubles melting away in the warmth, the sweet saltiness and the darkness, Elle’s voice and body being all he takes in. He wants to give her exactly what she needs, in thanks for the literal peace of mind she provides. Soon she snatches at his wrist, struggling to pull away his hand, saying “okay, please, you're too good.”  
“Ugh,” he murmurs in resistance, “How did a crappy sonofabitch like me get someone as good as you?”  
“You’ve earned it Winchester,” she replies.  
“Nooo, baby,” he says, running his hands over her, “this body? Your heart?” hand pressing at her chest, “no one could earn those. No soul’s good enough.”  
“Then you’ll just have to accept the gift,” she says, holding his hips against her as she rolls onto her stomach. “I’m yours.”

He groans as their connection changes shape a little, and Elle pushes them both back so she can place a pillow under her hips. The new angle is just perfect and they both gasp at the feeling.  
Dean pauses in her so he can speak, “Sorry, gorgeous, but you got that the wrong way around.”

It feels good, but not deep enough for Elle. She pushes back more and slowly comes to sit on his lap, his knees spread wide for her. Dean runs his hands over her bottom as they move, drinking in how he fits between her cheeks, and slides his thumbtips over skin rarely seen. He then holds her ribs to keep her near and she reaches back for his waist, the other hand reaching over and caressing his neck. “Really?” she asks, “You’re mine?”  
“Entirely,” he says distinctly, into the back of her neck, “I surrendered weeks ago.”

Elle leans forward, resting on her knuckles a little and moves forwards and back, gently bouncing herself onto him, moaning gently. He gasps at the goodness, his mind recreating how she must look, and resists thrusting in reply.

“Say it again?” she requests between aching breaths.  
He smooths her hair so it all hangs over her right shoulder, slides his left hand between her breasts and pulls her back to him. He speaks into her ear, deeply and clearly. “Elizabeth,” his hand over her heart, “I’m yours.”

Their sex feels too good to hold back any longer. Elle can feel herself edging towards incoherence. She didn’t know if it was a request or a release, but all she could think to say was “Go.”  
Dean groans in relief, biting his lip. He holds her hips tight and drives into her, both of them moaning against it. He goes again, Elle reaching behind her, her hand wrapping around the back of his head. Again and again he thrusts, giving thanks, taking pleasure.

Elle wants to hold him, but can’t hold herself up against the action. She tumbles onto her hands, both of them shifting forward, her voice aching with each plunge and feels the depth and width of him all, the light knocking of his balls against her clitoris, his fingers in her hips and cheeks. Dean too is completely consumed in the sensation – her tightness, her begging noises, her grasping at his hand and wrist, asking for more. His mind’s eye can see her, completely, in the darkness. The delicious sensations Elle had desired for so long, they are here now, but she can’t think and she can’t wait. “Please… Dean,” she pleads, and digs her nails into his wrist.

He speeds up, his rhythm becoming sloppy against the weight of moving them both. He holds on tighter and gives and gives, both of them racing for the edge. They toppled over, struggling to keep themselves from falling onto the bed, calling wordlessly through the high. They pant and ache. Elle crumples back down, belly and shins on the bed, taking Dean with her. He drops himself onto his back beside her and she drapes herself over him. They hum as they breathe and slow, content and high.


	8. There

In the bathroom mirror, Dean is distracted by his own reflection. It seems further away than before. He can’t really recall what he used to see, but now… it’s oddly unfamiliar. For a second, he thinks he can catch a glimpse of what Elizabeth sees, or maybe who he is with her. He notices his lips redder from their love making, his skin warmer, ruffled hair. He can see a happy man around the edges. But then there are his eyes. He had expected them to be old, or tired, or desperate but they were just… distant.   And waiting.

He blinks, and looks harder, demanding some recognition. And then it’s there. He stands straight and imagines Elle beside him, and all his features soften and relax. But his heart still races from the strange encounter. It wasn’t nothing. He stares at the good man in front of him and wills the image into the glass.

When Dean slides back into bed next to Elle, in the dark, he collects her face for a long, generous kiss. It’s almost a beginning kiss, nothing about it saying goodnight, and Elle’s a little surprised as its passion and depth. She loves it though, welcoming the taste and want of him. “I love you,” he says, pressing his cheek against hers. She holds him in return and replies “I love you too.”

They hug for a few seconds, and then Elle realises he’s not okay. His breath trips before he says “I’m changing,” his mouth sounding wet with sadness. “The blade is changing me. I don’t know how to stop it.”  
“I know, baby,” Elle says, hugging him so hard it her back hurts more than it has for days. “Try not to think about it too much. Just focus on the people who love you. There are many more who have faith in you.” She feels his chest heave and she pushes him onto his back so she can crouch over him, her knees in his armpits and her belly to his.  
“Everything I’ve read, Elle… I don’t know that it’s going to be enough.” She could feel the tears when she brushed her fingers through his hair.  
“You’re right to be afraid,” she says, trying to present a calm and sensible voice, “But look at Cain. He was able to act on his goodness; he had a love, and lost her, and still kept himself straight.”  
“After centuries of being evil,” he pointed out.  
“Ordered and tortured, Dean,” she corrected, “he was tortured for screwing up others’ plans. He did a lot of things for the right reasons, just like you.”  
His breathing still wobbling, Elle doesn’t think his silence is in agreement. She turns on the light and Dean rushes to wipes his eyes. She kisses him steadily and comfortingly.

Elle plants her hands either side of his head and stares into his eyes. “When I stand back enough to see the whole world,” she begins, “I know this has to happen. I know Abbadon has to go, and that we certainly want the devil we know in charge. In theory, I have no issue with someone being sacrificed for the greater good. And, really, there isn’t a person on earth better suited to the job. You are an excellent killer.”

He’s a little taken back at her point, feeling cornered. “What about in practice?” he asks, smoothing his hands over her arms, “What about when it’s just you?”  
“No, not me; you,” Elle says intensely. “When I think of you… what you’ve already given, how this stupid lineage has taxed your life, the grief and the loss, Dean…” Her eyes water and she breathes deeply. “I want you to cut your fucken arm off… But no one likes a hypocrite.”  
She rests on her elbows and holds his head. Dean closes his eyes and tries not to think of the worst. She tells him, “I’ll wait for you, and I’ll probably take whatever turns up. And if you go rotten, I’ll wait again,” he opens his eyes and shakes his head through her pledge, but she goes on. “As long as I’m around, I’ll be around for you.”  
“What if you’re not safe… around me?” he asks, now realising how the worst could really be.

Elle takes a moment, her mind flooding with terrible futures, but she pushes them aside. “People can tolerate more than they think,” she shares, but it breaks Dean’s heart a little to hear her prepare like that. She runs her finger over his lips, her thumb over his cheek, looking over her poor man. “Oh, my love… Think of Cain and Colette. Think of Castiel and how he brought me here. Think of all the times you guys gave yourselves up and brought each other back… Hope with us, okay?” She kisses him on each eye, then on his lips, letting him grasp and hold and pull at her, his anchor. “Okay,” he promises, “I’ll try hope.”


End file.
